


The Long Route

by SkysongMA



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, we're pretending age of ultron didn't happen okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:09:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7150625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkysongMA/pseuds/SkysongMA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How urgent is yours?”</p><p>Clint blinked. He was too sleepy to respond quickly. He moved his hand up and down over her spine, partly to touch her and partly to feel for knots that needed to be worked out. She carried all her stress in her shoulders because nobody ever bothered to look at them when she had her ass covered in leather. “Not very, I’d say, because nobody seems to know what’s going on. At least, Fury did that frustrated barky thing he does when nobody knows.”</p><p>“And my person is only a threat because he’s muscling in on the drug lord we like.” She blinked, slowly, like cat in sunlight.</p><p>“They’re like cockroaches, I swear,” said Clint, because he was starting to get the drift, but he didn’t want to push too far in any direction, even if he was right.  Everyone else pushed. He wanted to be the quiet one, the one she came to when she needed a break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Route

The lock wasn’t hard to pick; they never are. No matter how many geegaws you stick on a lock, it’s still a lock, and Natasha had been picking them since she was tall enough to look into the keyhole. Even the magnetic strip kind just took a little persuasion, and persuasion was Natasha’s specialty.

 

It was a fancy hotel room, the sort of thing Clint would only spring for on Fury’s dime. The TV was enormous, and there was a computer in the corner. Not Clint’s. He used technology, but he got no joy from it. The curtains were all drawn, and the only light came from a slight strip where one hung askew.

 

Clint stayed asleep when she came in, maybe because she was quiet, maybe because he knew she was the only person who wouldn’t break down his door if she didn’t feel like knocking. He was curled up on his side, facing the middle of the bed. A bandage was wrapped around his bicep. If she flicked down the sheet, she knew she would find another somewhere.

 

She watched him sleep, and then she walked around to the other side of the bed. Everything came off:  the bobby pins in her hair, the gunbelt around her waist, the bracelet of knives and her stingers on each wrist. The thigh holster, the boots, the badge. The catsuit went, too, because the thing got sweaty as fuck whenever she did real work and there was nothing underneath he hadn’t seen in one scenario or another.

 

She stood there naked, reveling in the air conditioning on her back, then walked over and turned the TV on with the volume low. She couldn’t sleep without human voices, however manufactured. She slipped into bed.

 

Some part of her sighed, the way it always did when she knew she could rest. When she knew that even if she did have to fight, she would have someone at her back.

 

***

 

Clint knew Natasha was there before he woke up because she always stole the sheets. He was half-covered, which was better than usual, but he was still freezing because he’d left the air on high when he fell asleep. He opened his eyes and inspected Nat. No new injuries, as far as he could tell, which wasn’t surprising because as far as he knew she’d just been out doing minor recon.

 

Although you never knew when somebody would kick you in the head on one of those.

 

He yawned and rubbed his face. He’d been too tired to shower before he fell asleep, and he still felt like he was covered in stone dust and sweat, the usual after an explosion. And he needed a shave. Typical.

 

He sat up and turned off the TV with the remote. He could take the noise when he was already asleep, but he couldn’t watch the news anymore. It all seemed so small after New York.

 

He yawned again; Nat opened her eyes. He was sure she’d been awake since the moment he stirred, but Natasha did everything on her own terms, especially waking up. She arched her back and pulled the sheets around her, digging her fingers into her pillow.

 

Clint fell back on the bed, because staying vertical was just too much effort. “So. How was it?”

 

“I’m not dead,” said Natasha, her eyes closed. She rolled on her stomach and arched her back again. Her spine, elbows, and knees popped. The slightest hint of a wince flickered over her face. Clint ignored it, because you couldn’t spend too long in this biz without incurring collateral damage, usually the kind that made you ache when a storm was coming.  She opened one eye. Most of her face was buried in the pillow, but he could feel her inspecting him the way she cased a joint, checking for structural weaknesses. “You?”

 

Clint patted his shoulder, just above the bandages. “Well, Fury’s probably gonna have words with me for wrecking another building, but that’s nothing new.”

 

Nat laid out flat again, burying her face in the pillow. “It was a crappy building anyway.”

 

“It was. Next time I think I’ll hire a designer to follow me around and critique the décor. At least then I’d get a laugh out of all this shit.” He saw her smile: not on her face, but in the way her shoulders relaxed.

 

“Gay?”

 

“If I wanted catty remarks, I’d just turn Tony’s feed back on. Bastard never shuts up.” He scooted back until he was sitting up again, supported by the headboard. He pulled one knee up against his chest and then the other, trying not to grimace too badly. “Nah. I want a cute chick. Somebody who’ll fit in one of your spare catsuits, I think. Those are hot.”

 

She lifted her head so she could shoot him a dry look, but she didn’t mean it, and her hair was rumpled and loose, too appealing to make anything like that stick. “Literally. Tell her not to buy real leather.” She rolled over and sat up, not bothering to pull the sheet up over her breasts. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re a pig?”

 

Clint grinned. “Hey, compared to Tony, I’m a saint.”

 

“And compared to Thor, you’re still a pig.”

 

“Does he _still_ kiss your hand every time he sees you?”

 

“Damn right he does. Gods know a thing or two about how to treat a lady.” She closed her eyes, brushing one hand over the muscles of her stomach. “It’s nice.” Natasha scooted over; he took the cue and put his arm around her shoulders. He liked having her there, especially when the two of them weren’t running from shit.

 

He propped his chin on top of her head. “I thought that kind of thing was called chauvinism these days.”

 

“Not when you do it because you don’t know any better.”

 

“Can I start opening doors for you, then?”

 

She opened one eye and glared at him through it. “Maybe if my arms and legs are broken. You’re not nearly as hot as Thor, you know.”

 

“I know better than to try and compete with a demigod,” said Clint calmly. “I’ll just pants the fucker one of these days.”

 

“I have a feeling that wouldn’t end in your favor.”

 

“But it would make me feel better.”

 

“Not if you saw his junk.” Clint raised one eyebrow, looking down at her. Natasha just smiled in that thin way she usually reserved for Tony Stark, the one even Clint could never make out.

 

She yawned and pushed away from him. “What kind of shower does this place have?”

 

Clint smiled a little, watching the careless way her hair fell across her face. “Large.” She opened her eyes long enough to meet his, and then she slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent on the carpet.

 

***

 

“You know, I like this place,” said Nat, padding over to the window. Her hair was still wet, and she left dark footprints on the carpet because she’d never cared much for towels. She tucked the curtain around herself so she could pull it aside and peer out. “Nice city, too.”

 

Clint sat on the bed and rubbed his face. He never got to shave as often as he wanted, so he didn’t get sick of the feeling after. Langorous and happy in a deep way that only happened once in a great while, he fell back on the bed. “And I don’t have to check out until tomorrow morning.”

 

“Mmm,” said Natasha, closing the curtain. She didn’t turn back to him; one hand moved through her hair, wringing out water. “So where are you headed next?”

 

“South. Something’s happening in Brazil—Fury thinks Banner might be down there already, but you know how he is. Can’t make the guy sit still for a beer, much less to stop trouble.”

 

She looked over her shoulder at him, making eye contact for just a moment, the way she had before. “I’m going south, too. Drug lord in Peru needs a little touch of the strongarm.”

 

Clint snorted. “Since when did they let you have all the fun?”

 

A smile passed over her lips, fleeting as the first snowflake of winter, and she walked back over to the bed. She sat beside him; he slid his hand up over her shoulder and pulled her down to him, but she propped her elbows on his chest and refused to come any closer. “How urgent is yours?”

 

Clint blinked. He was too sleepy to respond quickly. He moved his hand up and down over her spine, partly to touch her and partly to feel for knots that needed to be worked out. She carried all her stress in her shoulders because nobody ever bothered to look at them when she had her ass covered in leather. “Not very, I’d say, because nobody seems to know what’s going on. At least, Fury did that frustrated barky thing he does when nobody knows.”

 

“And my person is only a threat because he’s muscling in on the drug lord we like.” She blinked, slowly, like cat in sunlight.

 

“They’re like cockroaches, I swear,” said Clint, because he was starting to get the drift, but he didn’t want to push too far in any direction, even if he was right.  Everyone else pushed. He wanted to be the quiet one, the one she came to when she needed a break.

 

She leaned down so her mouth brushed his ear; his hand tightened on her back, reflexively. “I think we should take the long route.”

 

He arched up into her lips as she moved them down along the base of her jaw, but his voice was steady. “And it only makes sense for us to go together. Did I tell you I wrecked my jet?”

 

She snorted, her teeth brushing over his adam’s apple. “You thought Fury would kill you for doing in the building? He’s going to have your ass for the jet first.”

 

“I _knew_ Fury secretly hired me because of how my butt looks in the costume. Don’t think I haven’t seen how he looks at me with the good eye.”

 

Natasha started snickering—not low-in-the-throat sexy snickers, the kind she spared for everyone else. Real laughter.

 

“Don’t laugh at me. It’s a real problem! And I don’t want to approach him about it. He’ll have my badge for it.” Natasha kept laughing softly. He put the other arm around her and let out a deep sigh. The good kind. “I like your idea, Nat.”

 

“Of course you do,” she murmured, her voice smug and possessive. She slid off to lie beside him. 

 

He rolled over to face her and tangled his fingers in her still-wet hair. “Can’t delay too long, of course.”

 

One eye open and fixed on him, she shrugged. “A little’s better than nothing.”

 

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed. “That it is, Nat. That it is.”

 


End file.
